


After the Night When I Wake Up

by dragongirlG



Series: If I Had a Heart [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Amnesia, Dreams vs. Reality, Gen, HYDRA Trash Party, Identity Porn, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sexual Slavery, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 12:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16241921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragongirlG/pseuds/dragongirlG
Summary: Steve Rogers, S.H.I.E.L.D. janitor by day and double agent by night, works with a group called the Avengers to gather intel on HYDRA. When he raids Alexander Pierce's home office, the last thing he expects to find is a naked man in a cage.James has been HYDRA's whore ever since the accident that took his memory. He's never had a dream as strange as this one.(Note: Rape/non-con is not between Steve and Bucky.)





	After the Night When I Wake Up

**Author's Note:**

> A long time ago, I read a prompt along these lines: “You are a thief who breaks into a house. When you break in you discover an injured person hidden in the closet and help them escape.” I don’t know where the exact prompt is now, but this is my attempt at filling it.

Steve takes a silent breath, in and out, as he stared at the ornate locks in front of him. His earpiece buzzes softly, and Natasha says in a low voice, “Interior cams disabled. You’ve got thirty minutes, Cap.”

“Roger that,” Steve mutters. He adjusts his black ski cap, making sure it completely covers his blonde hair, then slips his lockpick kit out of his pocket and begins to fiddle with the doorknobs.

“Hawkeye, are you nested on the roof?”

“Roger,” Clint says. “Sightlines everywhere.”

It takes Steve three minutes and thirty-three seconds to undo the complicated mechanisms on the door. _Twenty-six minutes_ , he reminds himself as he uses one gloved finger to poke the door. It slides open half an inch without a sound. Steve pokes it open a few more inches, then angles his slim body and slides himself through. He quickly assesses the foyer, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, and breathes “All clear” into his comms when he doesn’t see any booby traps.

 “Roger that. Go straight ahead, Cap, but stay alert.”

“Roger,” Steve mutters softly. He quickly crosses the foyer and ducks into the spacious parlor, full of old Victorian furniture that looks incredibly eerie in the moonlight. Steve fights a shiver and hurries up the spiral staircase, keeping his steps light as he turns left down a long hallway. _Three left, four right, one landing up, and then straight ahead._ He silently speeds through the maze of rooms, thanking whatever higher power there is that he grew out of his asthma after puberty.

The Avengers are raiding Alexander Pierce’s house tonight. Pierce is currently at a holiday benefit fundraiser for the American Red Cross, being distracted by Tony Stark, the Avengers’ resident philanthropist and main financier. Word on the street is that Pierce has ties to HYDRA, a neo-Nazi organization that’s been sowing fascist ideas throughout the country with virtual and physical terrorism against people who fight for justice.

On the surface, Alexander Pierce appears to be a good man. He uses his position on the World Security Council to mediate international conflicts and donates significant amounts of money to charitable organizations that focus on disaster relief. But Steve has long believed Pierce is a closet fascist ever since he saw the man’s faux-concerned face during a press conference about Nick Fury’s death. Pierce swore to root out all traitors within S.H.I.E.L.D., and some of the language he used was textbook dogwhistling.

Steve’s lucky that he hasn’t fallen into Pierce’s interrogation orbit yet. Pierce probably took one look at his position as a janitor and passed him over for a higher value target such as Natasha, a senior agent with a checkered past. She’s been able to avoid Pierce so far. Her distinct set of skills means that she tends to get assigned overseas missions, and Clint, as her mentor and partner agent, gets to go with her. The pair have been covertly gathering intel on HYDRA during their official S.H.I.E.L.D. missions. Steve, meanwhile, has been working with Tony and Hell’s Kitchen lawyer Matt Murdock to build a case against Pierce. As a twenty-four-year-old janitor with a visible hearing aid, Steve tends to get ignored at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, and he’s picked up several pieces of gossip by strategically and unobtrusively placing himself in the corners of the busiest and most important offices. With his job, he’s got a reason to come back in after hours, and alongside his normal duties he sneaks around and make copies of important files – paper and digital – for the team to decode later.

“Widow, I’m at the office door,” Steve says quietly. “It’s a big wooden beast with a lion’s head knocker. Roger?”

“Roger, Cap,” says Natasha. “Go on in.”

Steve presses two fingers against the door. It’s heavy. He wraps one hand around the doorknob, surprised to find it unlocked, and does a quick check for more traps before crossing the threshold. Leaving the door ajar, he fumbles with his flashlight, then makes a beeline for the huge desk in the far left corner. He quickly picks the locks on the drawers and nimbly rummages through each one. The bottom right drawer has a false bottom.

“Bingo,” Steve whispers. Underneath the false bottom, the HYDRA logo glares starkly at him, stamped onto a thick accordion document holder that’s been filled to the brim. This must be the master HYDRA personnel file that Natasha’s source mentioned. Steve grabs it, quickly resets and relocks the drawer, and then heads for the door.

A soft whimper halts him in his tracks.

Steve holds his breath as he slowly swings the flashlight toward the other corner. A pair of glittering eyes peer out at him.

“Fifteen minutes,” Natasha says.

Steve doesn’t respond. He cautiously tiptoes closer, his flashlight creating a long, slow white arc that gradually illuminates a wiry metal cage. Inside the cage, to Steve’s horror, lies not a dog but a naked man. The man is curled up on his side, his arms bound behind his back and his mouth filled with a thick ball gag. He stares at Steve through a curtain of long, greasy hair, flinching when Steve steps closer.

“Hey,” says Steve, crouching down slowly. Maybe this is some kind of BDSM thing? Risky blackmail material, sure, but not illegal.

It doesn’t matter. Steve can’t leave the man here to report what he’s seen to Pierce or the police. And hey, maybe if he works for Pierce, he can give them some intel.

Steve hates that he’s thinking like that. He blames Natasha.

“I’m going to get you out of here, all right?” Steve says softly, examining the padlock on the door.

“Cap, what’s going on?” Natasha says into his comm, alarmed.

“Found something unexpected. Don’t extract me yet – I’ll be out at the agreed time,” Steve mutters, and he reaches into his pocket for his lockpicks. He turns back to the man, who whimpers as he tries to scoot away. The cage leaves him no room to move, though, and he just ends up scraping his skin across some of the wire.

“It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.” Steve can’t see the man’s body very well, but he sounds like he’s in pain. “I’m going to undo the lock first, okay?”

Steve makes quick work of the padlock, then slices the ropes around the man’s wrists with his pocket knife and gently unbuckles the gag.

“Please…” the man whispers, still lying limply in the cage. He takes a ragged breath. “Just kill me. Please.”

Steve swallows the nausea rising in his throat and crouches down. “Come on, let’s get you out of here,” he says softly.

The man’s breath hitches, and he moans and winces as he pulls himself up onto his hands and knees. He has to keep his spine hunched and his head lowered to avoid hitting the top of the cage as he wriggles backward onto the lush carpet. Once he reaches Steve, he places both hands behind his head, plants his face on the ground, and sticks his ass in the air right in front of Steve’s face. Steve stares, horrified.

“Cap. Ten minutes and you’re out of there.” Natasha sounds steely. “Roger?”

“Roger,” Steve mutters, and he turns his attention back to the man. There are faint, scabbed lines on the man’s ass, like he’s been whipped recently. Steve clenches his fists as rage pulses through his blood, then forces himself to exhale slowly. “Hey, no. It’s not like that. I’m not going to r-rape you or hurt you. Not now, not ever.”

“Cap, what the hell is going on down there?” Clint asks.

Steve ignores him. He lightly touches the man’s shoulder, then quickly withdraws when the man’s muscle almost spasms at the touch. “Sorry,” he says quickly.

The man is shaking.

Steve digs his fingernails into his palms as he tries to think. "Can you stand up?”

The man nods.

“Okay,” says Steve. “Okay, good. How about…how about you do that. Stand up. I’ll lead you out of here. My team and I…we’ll get you patched up and take you to a safe place.” Steve almost suggests going to a hospital or police station, but he quickly rejects the notion. Who knows how far Pierce’s corruption spreads, especially around this area? He doesn’t want to drop the man off in a seemingly safe place only for him to get snatched up by Pierce and his associates again.

Steve watches as the man slowly unfolds his limbs. He pauses on his knees, tucks his feet under his ass, and then heaves himself upward with a grunt. Steve rises with him. The man is six inches taller than him, but he’s swaying more than a weeping willow in a hurricane. Steve says, quietly, “I’m gonna help support your weight, okay?” He slowly wraps an arm around the man’s bare waist. “Is this okay?”

The man nods.

“Okay. Let’s go. It’s going to be a long walk.” Steve puts his flashlight between his teeth, then leads the man out of the office and pulls the heavy door closed with a thunk.

The man winces with every step as he limps alongside Steve through the labyrinth of Pierce’s house. This close, Steve can smell him. Days of unwashed body odor, trickling sweat, and the faint trace of semen all linger on his body. Steve holds his breath, horror coursing through him as he imagines what the man has had to endure.

Steve pauses momentarily at the top of the spiral staircase, letting the man catch his breath, and quietly asks Clint to meet him at the front door through the comms.

“Roger that, Cap. You gonna tell me why?”

“I need support. You’ll see.”

The man shakes like a leaf as Steve guides him down the steps and through the parlor. “Please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the man whispers frantically. “I’m sorry, please don’t punish me, please, please…”

Steve can’t answer with the flashlight in his mouth, so he tries to make their journey as quickly as possible. He adjusts the document accordion in the crook of his free elbow and then pushes open the front door. A dark silhouette looms in front of them. The man gasps and shrinks away, pressing into Steve.

“Whoa, easy, man,” says Clint, clicking on his flashlight so that the man can see his face. “You seem, uh, injured. Not you, Cap, I mean, you, other guy I don’t know. How about we get you back to the van so you can get some clothes and painkillers? That sound good?”

The man shivers violently in the cold winter air and ducks his head. “Wh-whatever you want, sir,” he whispers, barely audible.

“Oookay,” says Clint, raising his eyebrows at Steve over the man’s head. Steve shrugs his free shoulder.

“I’ve gotta fix the door locks. Is it okay to let my colleague help you? He’s about your height, and it might be easier for both of you to walk together,” Steve says to the man in a low voice.

The man nods. Steve jerks his head at Clint, who nods and places his arm around the man’s shoulders. The man stiffens. “Come on, buddy, I gotcha,” says Clint. “It’s gonna be all right.”

Steve holds the accordion holder between his knees as he quickly resets the elaborate locks. “All done,” he says.

“Come on, boys, hurry up and blow the joint,” says Natasha into the comms. “You’re already running late.”

Steve takes point and leads the other two men around the side of the house, through a maze of protective, thorny hedges, then out to the hidden back road meant for gardening staff. The van is waiting inconspicuously, parked at the entrance of the narrow road with lights off. Steve whispers the code word into the comms, and Natasha unlocks the doors. Steve takes the front passenger seat and watches Natasha’s fingers fly across the keyboard as she re-enables the security cameras. He then carefully packs up the surveillance equipment as Natasha drives them off the property.

When Steve turns around, Clint is fussing with the medical kit, and the man is dressed loosely in some old cargo shorts and a T-shirt. He’s clutching a thick orange shock blanket. The man turns his head slightly, glancing at Steve. His hair falls back from his face for a moment, illuminated by Clint’s flashlight.

The air suddenly gets sucked out of Steve’s lungs.

 _“Bucky?”_ he gasps.

The man frowns, looking down and crinkling his fingers in the blanket. “Who…the hell…is Bucky?”

* * *

 

James is dreaming.

This is a strange dream, with more twists and turns than the Cyclone at Coney Island, but anything is better than James' reality, so he stays in it.

It starts with the skinny guy who breaks into the office and starts going through the desk. James watches him from his cage. His face – all shadows and angles in the harsh beam of light – stirs something in James, something like _trust_ and _hope_ , and more distantly, _warmth, love, joy_. James doesn’t know where these emotions come from. They’re so unfamiliar that he spends a lot of time just trying to figure out how to name them. Since the accident, all he’s known is _fear, pain, desperation_ , with an occasional side of _mindless pleasure_ that his masters only give him after he begs to their satisfaction. James used to feel humiliated by this, but now he seeks it and craves it; it’s the only reprieve he gets from his miserable life as HYDRA’s whore.

James thinks that his life wasn’t always like this, that before the accident he might have been happy and healthy, with a family, friends, a worth outside of HYDRA, but try as he might he’s never been able to remember anything specific. He’s not even sure James is his real name. When he woke up in a hospital bed with a broken left arm and giant goose egg on his head, he could barely even speak. The Russians told him he was an American named James that had agreed to pay his debts to HYDRA through sexual servitude. It made sense at the time. He could understand English, but not Russian, at first, and he was attractive enough. No one came to look for him, and he couldn’t remember if he had any real skills.

The Russians told him they only needed five years from him and then they’d let him go to enjoy the rest of his adult life. They’d been almost kind at first, giving him hot meals, hot showers, physical therapy and other medical treatment, even novels or Russian language books to pass the time while he recovered. Once he was fully functioning, though, it was game over: James soon lost track of the date amidst all the “training” they put him through, and he doesn’t know if he finished five years before getting passed to American HYDRA or if he’s still serving out his sentence.

James had tried to ask once, when he first arrived back in the States and was still feeling out his new situation. All he’d gotten in response was a joking offer of a bath, which he accepted and immediately regretted: the bath turned out to a modified sensory deprivation tank, which James laid in for what felt like hours with his ears, ass, and mouth plugged and his limbs bound spread eagle. James hadn’t asked any questions after that.

When the skinny man turns to leave, James can’t help but make a noise of disappointment. He’s only been in the cage for a few hours, but in the dark, it feels like eternity, and he doesn’t want to be left alone. He watches the light sweep over himself, and he’s struck with a sudden shame, an urge to run and hide. He doesn’t want the man to see him like this: used, wrecked, helpless. He has a vague image in his head of the man looking at him with a warm smile, and of himself tall, strong, dressed to the nines with a mischievous glint in his eye. The man has blond hair that shines in the sun. It’s a good image, and James basks in it.

The creaking of the padlock brings him crashing back to reality, and James whimpers as he hears footsteps and muttering near him. Someone opens the door, and James flinches reflexively, trying to back into what little space the cage provides. Outside the cage means nothing good:  more pain, more punishment, another game that he doesn’t know the rules to. Someone unties him, removes the gag, and James begs for death, craves the sweet peace of it. Maybe they’ll be merciful for once.

It’s not the case. He hears the order to get out, and he complies, no matter how much his instincts are screaming at him to resist. He presents his ass like he’s been trained, waits for the next order as his tears drip silently into the carpet.

The hand that touches him is slim and warm. _Artist’s hands, always carrying a pencil._ He doesn’t know why the image pops up in his head, why it makes him feel safe.

“…stand up?”

Shit. Shit. Was that a question? Was that a question for him? He doesn’t have time to figure it out. He nods, because agreeing tends to bring less pain than disagreeing. He must have done something right, because no one hits him. But there are words – orders. Something about standing. About going out.

James doesn’t understand.

This must be another punishment. Maybe a test. Maybe both. His HYDRA masters had punished him severely before locking him in his cage tonight. Specifically, they’d taken him to the front room with the fancy furniture, tied his limbs to the feet of the chairs so that he was spread out against the carpet, and then caned his ass, his back, and worst of all, the bottom of his feet. They’d taken turns fucking him afterward, cheering each other on, smoking cigars and sipping scotch while passing him around like a party favor. All this because he’d dared to stand and walk down the stairs to the basement dungeon where they’d wanted to play instead of crawling like an animal. James’ relief that they hadn’t kicked him down the stairs had been short-lived.

His feet sting with every step he takes, but his body relaxes into the hand around his waist, like it knows it can trust the person attached to it. James peeks down at the man and tries to get a closer look at his face, but it’s too dark. They wend through the hallway, and suddenly they’re in the front room again.

No. No. No no no no. Not again. The pleas fall out of his mouth before he can stop himself, but no one’s listening. Then suddenly, they’re outside and it’s freezing and there’s some hulking guy at the door, taking James away from – _St_ – the skinny guy and James doesn’t like that. He’ll get punished if he complains, so instead he concentrates on not getting frostbite. He gets glimpses of leaves and greenery, and then he’s being pushed into the backseat of a van. There’s no room to kneel, so he sits uncertainly, reflexively taking the clothes that get shoved in his hands.

Wait. Clothes? This must still be a dream. He hasn’t been given clothes in years, unless you count bondage gear or lingerie.

He pulls the clothes on, because he knows now this is a dream – _his_ dream – and he wants to be fully dressed for once in his life. There’s an orange crinkly thing in his hands now – a shock blanket, he recognizes, though he doesn’t know how he knows that. He’s about to unfold it and wrap it around himself – dream aside, he’s still fucking freezing – when the skinny man turns around, and James takes his chance to look more closely at his face before it fades into the darkness.

The skinny man gapes at him and utters a name.

_“Bucky?”_

James retorts, “Who the hell is Bucky?”

But the words come out wrong and slow, because the name resonates like a gong’s been hit inside of his skull and there’s a rush of images and sounds and _feelings_ coming at him from all sides. His hands shake as he ducks his head under the shock blanket, trying to block it all out, but he just feels like he’s suffocating, which reminds him of the sensory deprivation tank, which makes him panic even more. He rips the blanket off and gasps, breathing in the stale air of the van.

The skinny man is at his side now. He’s reaching out a hand, like he wants to touch James but isn’t sure if he’s allowed. _Artist’s hands_. James normally hates being touched, but the skinny man hasn’t hurt him so far, and anyway, this is his dream, right? He grabs the skinny man’s hand – it’s bare now, and so _warm_ – and he presses it against his chest, right where his heartbeat is.

“Bucky,” the man says, “do you remember me?” The man pulls off his ski cap. His hair is light-colored, and James knows, suddenly, the exact color it will be in the sun. Gold, like he imagined before. The man continues, “It’s me. It’s Steve.”

“Steve,” James says, testing the name out on his tongue. Yes, that’s a good name for the man. It sounds _right_. “Steve.”

“That’s me,” says Steve. His eyes are shining even in the dark, and his voice shakes like he’s about to cry. James frowns. That won’t do. He doesn’t want Steve to be sad in his dream. He wants him to smile like he imagined before, when he was watching Steve from the cage.

“Don’t cry, Steve,” says James. He reaches up and gently thumbs away the tears that are spilling down Steve’s cheeks. Steve lets out a shuddering breath and lifts his other hand, reaching for James’ shoulder like he’s about to pull him into a hug. James like the idea of that – he hasn’t had a gentle touch in so long, and he’s absolutely starving for it – so he pulls Steve in against his shoulder and wraps both arms around Steve’s back, delighting in the feel of Steve’s body against his own. Steve’s breath hitches, and he grips James tightly like he’s afraid to let go.

“Buck –”

James shakes his head. “My name is James. I think.”

“Yeah, that’s your name,” says Steve, and James smiles, pleased. “But I used to call you Bucky, because there were a dozen Jameses in our neighborhood. It’s – it’s from your middle name. Buchanan. James Buchanan Barnes.”

The three names settle in James’ consciousness. They feel right, in the way that dream logic does, so James goes with it. “Okay. You can call me Bucky.”

Steve huffs out a pleased breath against James’ shoulder. “Okay, Buck. I – I –” He pulls back, and James frowns sadly, although this does give him a chance to see Steve’s face better. “Buck, what happened to you? Why were you…why were you in there? Where have you been?”

James doesn’t like these questions. They make his head hurt and bring him too close to waking up. He shakes his head at Steve, who immediately looks contrite.

“Sorry,” says Steve. “We don’t have to talk about this now.” He tentatively takes James’ hand and squeezes it. “I’m glad you’re here, Buck. I really missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” says James. “C’mere.” His shoulder aches as he lifts his bad left arm, but he doesn’t care. Steve curls up against James’ chest, and it’s the best feeling in the world.

 

This is a good dream. James hopes he never wakes up.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from: ["If I Had A Heart"](https://youtu.be/EBAzlNJonO8) by Fever Ray, also known as the _Vikings_ theme song.
> 
> A comment or kudos is always appreciated!
> 
> You're always welcome to come say hello:  
> [Tumblr](https://dragongirlg-fics.tumblr.com/) | [Dreamwidth](https://dragongirlg.dreamwidth.org/) | [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/dragongirlg)


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